


Empty Graves

by BarbieWire



Category: Houdini & Doyle (TV)
Genre: Crime, Mystery, Other, Supernatural Elements, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-05-20 12:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14894450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarbieWire/pseuds/BarbieWire
Summary: Sergeant George Gudgett, feeling frustrated and set back in his career as a policeman by the success of Houdini, Doyle and Stratton, finally wants to solve his own supernatural murder case.A mutilated body is found in the Thames, strange attacks happen at night and a lot of empty graves.To solve the mystery and show everyone that he is Scotland Yard’s best investigator, Gudgett needs to dive into London’s darker history of medicinal practices, investigate a strange cult from overseas and order a lot of exhumations….teaming up with Houdini, Doyle and Stratton and even making new...acquaintances





	1. A nightly walk

**Author's Note:**

> +Spolers for Houdini and Doyle, last episode+  
> *misogynistic concepts and language is employed to paint Gugdetts way of thinking  
> I am trying to write a case for him to provide a character-arc for our beloved misogynist cop in the background. 
> 
> I am not a native speaker/writer, so excuse spelling/grammar mistakes, bad word choices and overall strangeness, feel free to correct me.  
> This is my first fanfiction ever, so I am happy about any constructive criticism and feedback you might have! Since it's a work in progress, I will be able to build it into the story as I go and will probably re-write 10 times

The newspapers were filled with the big story: “First female Scotland Yard constable saves President of the United States!”; “President Assassination prevented by woman”, the newspaper boys screamed it on the street, journalists were practically laying siege t

o Scotland Yard, asking about the great heroine, Adelaide Stratton, to write even more stories about her. The most famous police officer of England.  
Gudgett was seriously pissed. He sat at his desk in Scotland Yard, watching the Chief Inspector answering questions of yet another reporter. What more is there even to say? She worked in the police station and was mostly the babysitter of Houdini and Doyle. Chief Inspector Merring even suspected that her success was largely based on an affair with Houdini. Gudgett didn’t like to think about that. He looked out the window, seeing only ink-black night. Late already…  
Their streak of solved, high profile cases made him look like Scotland Yard’s biggest idiot, being bested by a writer, a lousy stage clown and a woman. He thought that nightmare was over when the trio left for the States. Having a few weeks to work on serious, actual police work without the silly stories of ghosts or phantoms did him well. But now -it only got much worse. Now he has to hear that Stratton, the first female Constable of Scotland Yard, is the new hero of the whole U.S.A. because she happened to be at the right place at the right time. Granted, shooting straight in a stress situation was something he didn’t expect from her, but sometimes, adrenalin works wonders. He never thought much about the idea of female constables and he wasn’t going to change his opinion now.  
He sighed and looked over the polished wood of his desk. It was always neat and tidy, the papers accurately stacked and arranged in right angles relative to each other and the edges of his desk. Right on top of one of the stacks was a file labled “Thames Corpse No 4039”, his latest case.

  
Earlier this day he was called to an embankment of the Thames, something peculiar was washed ashore. The Thames carried all kinds of things: discarded garbage, feces, factory refutes – and bodies. Or parts of it. It was the body of a man, discolored to a dark bluish purple, bloated with corpse gas. So far – so mundane. People often fell in the water by accident and drowned. What was puzzling were the missing parts. Usually, bodys that lay in water for too long lose limps attached to thin joints, like feet, hands and the head. This one was missing three fingers of the right hand – index, middle and ringfinger, the left lower leg and likely some internal organs, as indicated by a large cut from his abdomen down to his pelvis. Finding out what was missing would be the doctor’s job. He didn’t envy doctor Burnham, who did the autopsies for the London Metropolitan Police. A water-cropse reeked like hell itself. He was lucky though that it wasn’t the middle of summer, or this thing would dissolve in a few days.

  
Having a John Doe on his hands, he had spent the remainder of the day trying to identify the man. He fit no description of a missing person and there was almost no clue to his identity. He was naked, carrying nothing with him. The whole body was tattooed, though, this indicated a sailor or someone working at the docks. There were motifs of bare-breasted mermaids on his chest, anchors on his arms, and octopus-arms stretching out over the fingers of both his hands. "Couldn't he just have written his mother's name on his arm or something?", he thought to himself. Having read through seemingly endless pages of missing persons reports, his muscles were tense and he felt a headache coming. It was already late, anyway. He decided to call it a day and got ready to leave. He took his coat and hat, said goodbye to his colleagues and left the illuminated station, that was still buzzing with activity, mainly caused by nosy news reporters. Stepping onto the damp, dark streets of London, he smelled the rain and early autumn leaves. Wonderful. It was a moonless night, mist was beginning to form, a mist that was so thick it could almost be called rain. But over all of it hang the smell of the Thames, flowing by near the New Scotland Yard station. Even when the river could not be seen because of darkness or fog, you could always smell it. Slightly fishy, like seaweed and always a little bit rotten. Right now the darkness made the waters look like tar, opaque and silent. He thought again of the horribly disfigured thing they dragged out of there earlier this day.

  
Hushing his dark thoughts away, he drew a deep breath of the humid autumn air, concentrating on the smell of damp leaves and the moist stones of the street. His head felt a bit better already and he decided to walk home through the dark streets to clear his thoughts, get time to think.  
The main streets were illuminated by gloomy lights, either gas or electricity based, it was a gloomy light that couldn’t show the nightly walker more than silhouettes of houses, wagons or people, especially not with the thin veil of mist that lay over the city. He knew the streets well enough, he could probably find his home even without the lights. The walk was beginning to soothe the stress the day had brought him and calm his nerves. He wouldn’t squeeze in the tube just to get home earlier tonight, he would enjoy the calm and solitude that the night brought to the streets. There are two kinds of darkness: darkness that seems to look at you with malicious eyes, ready to jump you. But darkness can also be like a soft blanket, smoothing over the rough edges of a dirty, cold city. This is the kind of darkness Gudgett liked, no people to disturb his thoughts, no sounds or sights to distract him.  
He took backstreets and alleys as he pleased, choosing a longer way home. The streets were largely empty, the passersby just shadows on the edge of his vision. A few fallen women tried to offer their services to him, but he didn’t even care to decline anymore and just walked on as if he hadn’t heard their offerings. He wished he could just clean the streets of them, they were vulgar women on the edges of society, doing it in backyards, dark alleys or just plain on the street for a few pence. A disgrace to this city.

  
He took a turn into a dark side alley and – there seemed to be a pair, about ten yards away, entangled against a wall far away from the lamps, he heard strained breaths and grunting, a very large man seemed to lean against a smaller figure. There were tall buildings lining the narrow alleyway and the streetlamps were few and far away from each other, the perfect place for this kind of business. Disgusting. He wasn’t on duty and not particularly interested in intervening or stirring them up and he half-turned to take another route when he heard something like a strangled cry, not of joy, but of pain. It was little more than a whimper, but it carried an urgency with it that could not be overheard, something here was wrong. He took a closer look, trying to see what was going on in the shadows: the large man seemed to have straightened up and was pinning the woman on the wall above him, as if holding her by her throat.


	2. Hero of the streets

Gudgett knew that he was too small to take on this colossus, but he was well trained and had experience with street-thugs. He hoped he could use the element of surprise to stop whatever was going on there. Rushing the figure in the dark, he shouted: “London police! Let that woman down!” and tackled the large man in the side, making him stagger. Upon impact Gudgett thought he heard a rip crack under the thick coat of the man, knocking the air out of him. The woman he was holding fell to the ground with a loud thump and sagged. She whimpered and coughed loudly.

  
His opponent made a strange, gurgling sound, it wasn’t a groan made by his throat, it was more of a wet sound produced by his windpipe and lungs as they seemed to fight for air. The man faced him, but Gudgett couldn’t make out the man’s features in the dark. The nearest lamp stood at the junction he had come from. Gudgett addressed him, hoping to avoid further confrontation: “I am Sargeant Gudgett from the Metropolitan Police, I must ask you to come with me to the Station” He spoke loudly and clearly, hoping that the commotion alerted any nearby officers to support him on this matter. The man who breathed like a large pair of bellows responded by limping towards Gudgett, seeming in that moment like a large steam-automaton, huffing and puffing its way forward. Gudgett took his straightstick from his belt and lifted it in defense. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the woman moving behind him to the junction from which he had originally come from and seemed to have the sense to call for help, but her voice was raspy and little more than a hoarse whisper in the night. He, too moved backwards, always facing the man. He wanted to get closer to the light of the lamp that stood on the junction, to be able to see what he was doing. With an awkward jerk, his opponent started moving, towards him, fast even with the limp. He came fast towards Gudgett and swung his large fist in a wide circle, aiming for Gudgett’s head. Gudgett ducked, if this blow had hit him he would have been knocked out, or maybe worse. This man was serious about hurting him, an officer. Very well. Adrenalin rushed his body and all the heavy feelings of the day were blown away, Gudgett was frightened, but excited. He wouldn’t describe himself as an aggressive man, but he could appreciate the thrill of a fight. His mind and body were sharp and awake, he half circled the Goliath that struggled for balance and hit him in the lower leg, hoping to make him fall. The wooden stick hit the fleshy thigh with a blunt sound, but the pain he must have inflicted didn’t seem to register in the large man’s head. In one fluid motion, he turned around and swung his fist again in Gudgett’s direction, gathering momentum by turning his whole, big, meaty body. The bellows of the man’s lung exhaled a cloud of rotten smelling breath and Gugdett still got a nose full of it as he jumped back out of reach of the blow. In this moment, the attacker seemed to lose interest in a fight, turning his large body away and to the junction, where his victim still tried to make as much noise as possible to alert people of the attack. She now banged with a stone on the steel-post of the lamp. She stood in the soft glow of the lamp, her back was hunched and she was looking in terror at her nearing attacker. Now Gudgett saw just how small she was, she didn’t nearly reach up to her attacker’s chest. She wore a long brown coat and her brown hair was in a mess. She tried to back up, but the shock seemed to get the better of her and she just fell backwards.

  
Before Gudgett could get between them again, he finally heard footsteps, nearing from the main street. He shouted “Here! Police Officer under attack!” to alert his colleagues. Goliath seemed to go perfectly still for one moment. Then he turned suddenly away from the oncoming officers and limped down the street. His way of running was odd, he seemed to learn forward, almost to the point of losing his balance, but then moving his feet just in time to stay upright and he vanished around the corner.

  
Two officers appeared in the light of the lamp, they looked shocked and stood dumbfounded with the now shaking woman, looking in the direction the attacker had run. Gugdett couldn’t believe that, were they amateurs, just happening to wear uniforms? All the tension from the fight suddenly burst forward in an angry bellow: “Follow him you idiots!” He was fuming with rage seeing all this incompetence. Startled by his order, the two ran after the culprit.  
What had the girl thought being out and about at night, alone, in this neighborhood? Other than that, this looked pretty clear to him: young woman out alone at night and a drunk trying to take advantage of that.  
He looked at her again, At least she dressed like a proper woman, he thought. She didn’t wear anything fancy or colorful, her hair was hazel brown and in disarray. She seemed to have calmed a little bit, the shaking had stopped and she looked up at him, with puffy eyes. Her face was red from the attack and seemed a bit swollen, too. He was unnerved, but he tried to sound comforting: “Are you okay, Miss?”  
She nodded and rasped “…think so, thank you, sir”, she coughed loudly.

  
“Your throat must be a bit swollen, comes with the pressure. This will get better, soon.”, he said. “Did you know the man?”, he asked.  
When he mentioned him she looked frightened again, tears pressing out of her brown eyes. She just shook her head in response and looked away. She put her hand on her hair and mumbled “my hat”, and she looked at the corner where the attack had happened. Shock and confusion are normal responses to an attack, he knew that. What he didn’t know was how to calm her. So he went over where she was pointing, but could hardly see in the darkness, coming from the light of the streetlamp. After some looking he could make out the round shape of a women’s hat on the street, a little farther away. He picked it up, cleared a bit of dirt away and went back to the woman.

  
“Here it is, Miss”, he said and gave it to her. She nodded and pressed the hat against her chest, like a shield that would protect her. It was a plain hat, but with a large brim. Still shocked, he thought. He couldn’t get a statement from her like that. He still had to wait for his collegues and couldn’t leave her alone here. “I am going to take a look at your injuries, Miss, is that alright?”, he said in the most soothing and nice voice he had in his repertoire, which was, let’s face it, just speaking softly. She nodded again without looking at him and he lifted her chin to get a look at her neck. It was reddened, but there didn’t seem to be serious injuries. She was still breathing with no effort and that was a good sign that her windpipe was intact.

  
A dark drop fell from her hair and landed on her shoulders, he took it up and rubbed it between his fingers. Dark blood, it seemed. Perhaps the attacker had ripped out a patch of hair? He took a closer look. She must have worn her brown hair in a bun before, but the hairstyle had collapsed and was now hanging closer to her neck than sitting on the top of her head. He stroked through her hair with his fingers. It felt soft underneath his fingertips and he found himself enjoying the touch, despite all the bad things that had happened. But before his thoughts began to drift, he found a soft lump, hanging tangled in her hair. It was close to her head, he had to tug a little to pull it out.

  
“Ouch!” she mumbled.  
“Sorry, there is something…”  
What came free was a dark lump, oozing clotted red sod from one end. He stared for a moment, trying to make sense of what that was. He turned it over and saw that at the tip – was that..a fingernail? A dirty, split, fingernail, embedded in … He stood straight and turned away, she does not have to see that. He suppressed the need to throw that thing away and tried not to gag. He took out a handkerchief from his pocked and wrapped the evidence in it, making it an innocent-looking package of white cloth.

  
“What is it?”, whispered the girl.  
He turned around and said with his nicest smile: “Nothing much, just some dirt. You’re a tough girl, everything is okay”  
The corners of her mouth now twitched a little, forming something like a weak smile. She tried to get up, shakily and he offered her his hand. This got him another whispered “Thank you, sir”. Gudgett now felt a little like a hero, having saved a sweet girl from a bad man, as stupid as it sounds. During his workdays he usually had to do with the scum of the city or enraged clients pushing him to solve their cases first, there were no girls thanking him for his services. This coaxed a cocky smile out of him.  
“I am Sargeant Gudgett from the Metropolitan Police. Might I ask your name?”  
“Uhm my name is Sallie Crane”, she murmured.  
She was a bit smaller than him and looked up with those big, brown eyes. She touched her throat again, as if she could undo the damage to her vocal chords. Neither of them said anything for a moment as Gudgett tried to remember what else he was going to ask her. As he realized he was staring he took a step back and looked for his colleagues. No one was in sight, but he hoped they got this drunk bastard. Now he remembered what it was he wanted to say:  
“Miss, where do you live? What were you doing out here, alone?”  
“Uhm, live nearby, went home”, she said and was shaken by a violent coughing fit. She was covering her mouth and turned away. This was an answer, but he still he needed to know where she had been. But this could wait until tomorrow, he thought.  
Footsteps came closer and the two Policemen came back – without his suspect. There were about 3000 Officers in the city and he got the two that couldn’t even catch a limping mess of a man.

  
“Report”, he demanded at once.  
“We lost ‘im, Sarge. Street ‘s too dark, lost ‘im around the docks” He listened to their stammered excuses with his hands on his hips, pacing impatiently. This was no use anymore. He ordered them to take as much statements of the people that were standing around the alley, nosing around, primarily to disperse them and told everyone who has seen anything, who knew anything to come to the police station tomorrow and see him.  
After he did everything that was required by police protocol to secure as much evidence as possible, which was virtually nonexistent, he turned to Ms Crane. She stood in the light of the lamp with one of the no-use officers who seemed to be talking to her. She dutifully looked up at him and nodded, but didn’t seem really engaged. Coming to the rescue…He thought.  
As he approached the Officer, a tall, thin man with brown sideburns who seemed in his early twenties, stopped talking and addressed Gudgett: “Can she go now? Poor thing is very tired. I will accompany her.”  
Gudgett smiled with a little malice: “Don’t you have a few more statements to take, constable?” And he pointed to a loitering group of men that had not yet been questioned. The constable looked startled, but understood only too well that he would not be bringing the Miss home.  
Content with himself, Gudgett said “Come, Miss Crane, I will bring you home safely” and offered her his hand again. She took It once more and gave him yet another smile. She seemed to have done enough talking and coughing for the evening and stayed silent as they walked the dark streets. She looked around nervously, like the monster that attacked her might still lurk in the shadows.  
“Don’t worry, I am here now. Nothing will happen to you”, Gudgett said.  
She gave his hand a squeeze in response, but didn’t seem entirely calm. Who could blame her? Anyone would be scared.  
Having no more to talk about, Gudgetts mind wandered again. Feeling her warm hand in his, it felt almost like they were a couple. He didn’t meet many women, and he usually didn’t care so much about being alone. But sometimes, he missed company, living as a bachelor. So for now, he indulged in the pleasure of this small fantasy. He thought about how intrigued he was when Stratton was first announced to come to the station. He thought she was just some girl, searching adventure - and perhaps even a heroic, dashing policeman to marry. On her first day in the station, he still tried to be nice, be a gentleman until she realized that policework wasn’t for a woman and stopped that little experiment. But at any opportunity he offered her help – she refused. Politely, but ultimately, coldly. He didn’t even begin to make real advances, she made very clear not to need his help, desperately trying to prove her point as a woman constable. Of course, it was just a farce, but as it turned out: luck was on her side.

  
Sallie led him to an old and run-down house and drew a big key from her pocket. She looked around nervously before she opened the wooden door. Standing in the doorframe, she turned around and waved at him. He heard a choked “Goodbye”.  
“You will have to come by tomorrow, to Scotland Yard. Ask for me, Sargeant Gudgett.” She nodded and closed the door slowly, quietly. He stepped back and looked at the windows of the house. Eventually he saw a light in one of the upper windows and caught a brief glimpse of her as she looked out the window. She saw him standing down there in the street and waved at him before closing the curtains.  
Gudgett reached into his coat-pocket, retrieving a small package of white cloth. He opened the handkerchief to look at the piece of evidence found in the girls hair: he found detached, slightly rotten finger. On the darkened skin he could see the tip of a tentacle, inked into the skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure how a reader might see this chapter: is it too long? Too short? Should I try richer desciptions of the situation? Is it plausible? Perhaps even a bit suspenseful? Please, let me know!


	3. Coming Home a Heroine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We briefly visit Stratton and Houdini on their way home, connecting to the last episode and exploring Adelaide's feelings about her deed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to paint a nice scene and getting a feeling for the characters

The mix of feelings in Adelaide's heart was a perverse mix of pride, sadness, anger, relief and some other things that she hadn't yet had the power to categorize. She was proud of what she did: she prevented an assassination that would have had disastrous consequences. She showed the world what a woman could do if they just let her! She shot her husband, losing him a second time. Doing the deed herself: there was no one she could hunt down for that. No one she could punish for the whole in her heart. She hated him for what he did, yet loved him for the man he had been. A liar, a brave man, a lunatic, a visionary…   
She stood at the railing of the great ocean ship that would bring her back home, to England. A heroine. The sea still seemed endless, no land in sight. If she didn’t know they would be in Plymouth tomorrow, she could think they were still in the middle of the atlantic.   
A hand gently touched her shoulder. She turned her head and saw Houdini’s boyish face. He was smiling, showing his multiple dimples and his blue eyes sparkled with excitement.   
“Great Mrs. Heroine, thinking great thoughts of heroism and such?”, he joked with a dramatic gesture of his hand.   
He wore a light blue suit with a white shirt. She always thought the color suited him best.   
“No Mr. Houdini, who missed the action. Just normal thoughts.” It was a pleasant distraction from the carrousel of feelings she had been riding for the past weeks. “What do you thing will Chief Inspector Merring say?” she asked.   
Houdini put on his best innocent smile and said in an ironic tone “Oh I bet he will be de-lighted to see his most honored Constable come home. I bet he would rather eat a broom stick whole, without mustard, than honoring you officially.”   
Adelaide chuckled, it was a relief to have good friends with you. She joined in: “Perhaps he already resigned and fled London!”   
It was a hard time, not being accepted, having to deal with all the hurtful comments. Merring was merely condescending, Gugdett turned out to be a butt-hurt misogynist after he realized she wasn’t there to be his damsel in distress. That would hopefully be over now! She had proven herself, she had something to show.   
Houdini was hell-bent not to let her bad mood take over. She had been thinking a lot, dealing with a lot on the journey. He said: “I wanted to show you one of the wonders of the new century, they are displaying it on the upper deck.” He held out his hand to invite her to come with him. As she followed him inside she asked: “What is it? Another ghost-machine?”   
“Oh no, far better. It is…carrots, that are carved to look like roses. Can you believe that?”   
“I will have to see that myself!” She said with a wink.   
She thought she saw a glimpse of unrest in his eyes when he turned around and looked back on the deck, as if something was there that frightened him, but it was empty.


	4. Reviving a Beloved Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mood piece for Doyle <3

Doyle was sitting in his cabin on the ship. He thought he could use the journey to get a little work done. He was excited for what was to come. Tooie would get the best treatment for her lungs there was, thanks to Houdini, and he would get back to writing about Sherlock Holmes, wich made him happy. After his unfortunate episode of being poisoned by a fear-inducing substance, he made a decision. It wasn't important what people would say about him, and it wasn't important what his father would have thought. What mattered was what happened within, his own happiness.  
Writing Sherlocks adventures made him happy, that tough as nails cold-blooded detective believing in nothing but rationality would come back. But how? He fell down a deadly waterfall, in the middle of winter. His bones should be crushed and his body frozen solid.  
Doyle knew that just packing more stories in the time prior to Holmes' death would not be good craftsmanship, if he continued writing Holmes he would have to come back from the dead.  
He was not proud of this thought, but he found a good glas of whiskey losened the words immensly. And he was injured, all the more reason to pour a drink. He toasted at his still empty script:  
"Now how would you get out of this mess, my friend?" 

For the first time in a year, he couldn't wait for the future. Couldn't wait for his wife to recover, for new stories to flow out of his quill and for all the adventures he would still have to experience.


	5. I don't see you...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Houdini and his "mommy" have a little chat.

Houdini was not feeling very well. 

He was not seasick, he knew as much. It wouldn't get better on land. Would it ever get better? 

Just last year, his world was filled with flashy shows, beautiful women and being right. The world made sense. Spring-heeled Jack? Just an akrobat in a silly costume. That reborn man? Just a boy who brainwashed himself. All perfectly clear. That ghost? In the nunnery? Just imagination..

He took a nervous sip from his glass. Some gin would ease his nerves. He looked over at the small sofa in his cabin, his mother lay there, reading. When she saw him looking at her she smiled at him warmly and patted the space next to her, inviting him to sit down next to her how he did so many times before. 

He couldn't stand looking at her. He thought...the stress could have caused him to see her. But drinking and ignoring her wouldn't make her go away. She stayed stubbornly, being excruciatingly normal and pleasant. She was here to stay. Even though her body was rotting, right now, in a grave in America. Eaten by worms, by this time, her eyes probably were already eaten out by maggots. The thought of having her here, looking fresh and alive, was just wrong. 

Even if it acted like her, whatever was following him was not her, that much was clear to him. She was dead and gone. Whatever sat in his sofa was not his mother. 

He took another sip and turned away. 

"Why don't you sit with me?" 

Ignore her. 

"Cat got your tongue? The last time you were so silent was....well, never!" The thing laughed. 

Ignore it. 

He heard the think shift. It got up. 

Don't. Look. At. It.

"Very well, if my darling son is so stubborn I will go to the upper deck and get some coffee. You can come if you like." 

He heard it's steps on the floor, the opened and closed. He turned around. It was gone. 

He took a deep breath and looked at the door. 

He peeked out. 

It was nowhere to be seen.


	6. A new ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in London: George awaits his witness in the police station to question her about the attack and follows the lead he found tangled in her hair...

The buzz of reporters seemed to have found other stories to chase, the police station was relatively empty, wich was a great relief to Gudgett. They left a few young boys back, though, to watch out for any sign of Stratton or her friends. They stood awkwardly in around the many officer's desks and look a little lost, with their little notepads always ready but nothing to write down. He was in a generous mood today and considered not bullying the poor paper boys like he had the days before. As he entered he even smiled at them, but they only returned nervous grins. They were not trusting this sudden mood swing. 

 

His chest was inflated with the ego-boost his heroic rescue had given him the night before and he would get a visit from the sweet Miss, possibly earning more well deserved praise and thanks. And thinking about long-overdue thanks and recognition of his talents: he now would, too, solve a strange case all by himself, and everyone would know about it. Even if it had nothing to do with demons or vampires, finding a severed, rotten finger in the hair of a young women that mathed a bloated body in the morgue was at least a curious case, and he would be star of that story. He had picked on the young helpers of the Newsreporters, but now he needed them. Or, at least, one of them. He made an extra cup of tea and approached the most intelligent looking of the boys with a smile. He looked about 15 but it was hard to tell. He was very tall and skinny, his face looked young, boyish, and he had an abundance of brownish locks on his head and very light blue eyes. 

 

"Hello there, boy. Yesterday, you wanted to ask me a few questions, didn't you?", said Gudgett in his best conversational tone.  
The boy looked like he wanted to run away but Gudgett had already cornered him.  
"Y-yes Sir, but you told me to, uh, f-f-u- to go away", he stuttered a little and Gudgett remembered how he had lashed out at the boy. Damn his temper...  
"I was a little busy and overworked with a very special case. A mutilated corpse in the thames and parts of it turning up in the most unusual locations", he said quietly, like he didn't want anyone to hear except for the boy, who seemed intrigued and scared to death at the same time. He just nodded. "V-very interesting", the boy said with a whide eyed glance. "what kind of unusual locations?" 

"Part of this dead man's finger turned up in the hairdo of a pretty girl", he said mysteriously. Now the wheels in the boy's head seemed to be turning. He raised an eyebrow until it disappeared under his curly hair and his eyes flashed. "How did it get there?", he asked. He was sold, Gudgett knew that. "Well, I don't know", he said in a normal voice again and leaned back, breaking the spell of conspiracy and secret. "Tea?", he asked cheerfully and gave the boy a steaming cup. 

His name was Tommy and he hoped to be a real Reporter one day, he was quick, smart and very courious. Gudgett told him about his case so far in detail and Tommy loved it. So much that Gugdett didn't even have to ask him to be his minion on this case. 

Gudgett was very content with his people-skills and leaned back with a confident smile as the boy ran off with a photo of the corpse to ask on the piers upriver from where the body was found if anyone knew the tattooed man. And with that taken care of - Gudgett could wait for the little miss to tell him her side of the story.


	7. Don't fall for the witness!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sallie is giving her account of the evening

Sallie came in early afternoon and Gudgett spottet her right away. She looked around, but couldn't possibly see him in the busy station. Gudgett saw with delight that she looked a little more groomed and dressed up than the night before. She still wore shades of brown and gray, but the cut of the dress was more fitted and the fabric looked more expensive, with a delicate pattern woven into it. Her hat was fashionably cocked and was decorated with several dark red flowers made from fabric.

Scotland Yard was very busy on any day and he maneuverd around the desks, officers and visitors to get to her. "Ah, Miss Crane, I have been waiting for you", he greeted and offered her is arm. She looked a little surprised, linked her arm with his and he guided her to his desk. He pulled up a chair for her so that she would sit next to the desk, not opposite, so that he could better hear her over the buzz of the station and sat down.

"How have you been, Miss Crane? Has your voice recovered?", he asked.

"It still hurts, but it's not so bad", she said with her still rough voice and cleared her throat. She looked at him with her big, brown eyes, expecting him to talk.

He briefly forgot what he wanted to ask, he coughed and began shuffling through his papers to avoid a strange silence. He was a little more nervous than he liked to admit to himself. Once he realized that he was not even searching for any particular sheet on his desk and the forms for witness-reports actually were in the top drawer of his desk . He and put it in his typewriter. He should really have prepared this, but he somehow forgot, despite his anticipation of her visit. He typed her name and the date in the form. "There, all set." He looked back at her and and she was still looking at him. "Uhm, so tell me what you did prior to the incident?" he asked and put his fingers on the keys.

"I was working nearby.", she suddenly looked really unhappy and her cheeks reddened. "I, well, I play the piano in a drinking hall." She held her chin up and looked at Gudgett as if to check his reaction to that. He still wasn't sure what to think about that. No honorable women would have to take that job. Young girls from poorer family usually work as maids in the houses of richer folk until they where married, or on their family property or even a factory. But a drinking hall? Those establishments usually had small stages and played vulgar little skits or songs to keep the patrons busy and sell more expensive drinks. What would a women do there? Sitting in bars with drinking men, wearing flashy costumes and animating the men to drink, and sometimes even more... But she didn't seem that outgoing, like she could just chat with any random drunk. He must have shown his thoughts, because she continued in a sour tone: "Only play the piano, it keeps me fed and I have a roof over my head. However I was done for the day and went home, just like usual. When he struck me from behind, I didn't realize that someone was following me. I was hit by...something, in the side, and fell down. It happened so fast. Than he grabbed my hair and picked me up, that man was really, really strong. I tried to defend myself, even kicked him, but he just picked me up and began to choke me. And I don't really recall anything clear until he was gone and...you were there". She spoke the last sentence softly and looked up at him with a sigh. He finished typing. She seemed exhausted from speaking and coughed. He couldn't help but feel very sorry for her, she looked really small and miserable in her chair. She looked away and asked: "Is there more you need to know?" and she touched her throat again and put her hand back on her lap.

In an attempt to comfort her he turned towards her and took er hand in his. She flinched and looked away, but she didn't move her hand. "I will find out who did this and catch him. I promise." She turned her head and looked and him, looked him straight in the eyes and he felt his heart speed up. "Thank you", she said. He wished he could have stayed like that a little longer, but they where in a busy policestation and he didn't think it was appropriate. He let go of her hand and said "I am sorry, where are my manners? Do you want something to drink, perhaps some tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you" she rasped.

When he came back she seemed to have relaxed a bit. He put the tea on the desk and began shifting through his files again. "Miss Crane, do you know a man with this particular style of tattoo?" he asked here and showed her the photograph of John Does hand, depicting details of the octupusarms stretching out over his fingers. Next to the hand was a ruler for scale. She looked at it and seemed confused. Shaking her head she answered "No, I have never seen something like that. Why, do you think it might be him?" Hopefully not, since I dragged his body out oft he thames that day, he thought. Instead he said: " Just a possibility, I need to check every lead." He folded his hands and chose his words very carefully. "Considering your...work in the drinking hall, do you have any fans, men that have showed interest? That you rejected, perhaps?"

She appeared uneasy at that question, but answered: "No, I am not working there like...that. You must imagine: I sit on the side of the stage, playing the piano. People rarely even see me, they simply watch the show. There are way prettier women dancing.", she said.

"But you can be seen from the tables?", Gudgett wanted to know.

She looked irritated. "Yes, Sargeant, I can be seen. So?"

How to say this...she seemed easily offended and Gudgett risked that she just closed down if he asked to harshly. He liked to think that he was a charming man, so he smiled his best smile, wich tendet to be a little one-sided, and asked further: "Well, if anyone there can see you, there is always the chance of a secret admirer. A lot of men, even those who frequent such an establishment, prefer the charms of a more modest woman." She looked a little confused, unsure if this was a compliment or an accusation. She didn't answer, taking a sip of her tea instead.

"Even sitting on the sidelines, a beautiful woman will be seen as such." At his remark, her cheeks turned red and she seemed to have problems swallowing her tea. She quickly put the cup down and coughed nervously. "I know of no such man." She said and began fumbling at her skirts, looking down at her hands.  
Gudgett wasn't sure if she was lying or just uncomfortable with compliments. He hoped that she was just shy. But he needed to ask her more.

"Say someone in the crowd was a secret admirer, could you have upset him with something? Rejecting flowers or chocolates sent to you? Or perhaps he found out about another man?" he tried to ask as calm and neutral as possible.

"No, nothing. There is no man", she said with a cold voice. This didn't seem to be her favorite subject. _Moving on_.

"Or can you think of someone else who might want to harm you? A jealous wife or colleague? Do you owe someone money?"

"No, I can't think of anyone like that. I don't go around offending people, you know? I take care of my auntie, I go to work, I go to the market. I play piano. That's my life. We may not be rich but we make ends meet.", she said. She didn't look at Gudgett anymore and pressed her lips together, but seemed to calm herself. "Anything else?", she asked eventually.

Oh no, he seemed to upset her somehow. Women are like minefields. But he didn't want to let her go on such a note.

"Not at the moment, no. But be sure to come by if you think of someone." he said. He wanted to say more but she was already getting up, so he stood up as well.

"I am sorry, I need to ask all these questions. It's my job as a policeofficer. I just want to help you." He said and saw with relief that her features relaxed and she seemed soothed.

"I know, I didn't want to seem ungrateful. Goodbye, Sargeant." She turned and walked out of the station quickly, leaving a confused Gudgett behind.


End file.
